


duplicity

by ictus



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Identity Issues, Identity Porn, M/M, Mutual Pining, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 20:18:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15178529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/pseuds/ictus
Summary: Jason can’t do this anymore; can’t do the lies, the charade, the duplicity. But this isBruce, and nothing ever comes easy where he’s concerned.





	duplicity

**Author's Note:**

> More or less fits in with Rebirth continuity, some elements taken from RHATO (2016) Issue #21.

 

The first time, Jason is caught off-guard.

He’s been doing jobs overseas, mostly targeting drug cartels and sex-trafficking rings, so his grip on Gotham has slipped a little. But every couple of months he’s always sure to come back and crack a few skulls, restake his claim on his turf, and ensure that the name Red Hood is always spoken with equal measures of fear and awe.

He doesn’t usually get his hands dirty with the mid-level dealers, preferring to work directly with the higher-ups and let his influence trickle down from there. But one of his dealers has been hanging around Gotham High, and Jason has every intention of making an example of him.

Jason’s killing time the abandoned apartment where he’s due to meet the dealer. He’s mentally cataloguing how many knives he has on him and exactly how he’s going to use them, when the door damn-near bursts off its hinges. He draws his gun reflexively and almost recoils as he’s confronted with a man wearing what has to be the ugliest goddamn suit he’s ever seen in his life: ill-fitted, cheap polyester with magenta and teal checkers. The man himself is wearing no fewer than four gold chains and a pair of aviator sunglasses that look like they were sourced from the dollar bin of a street market.

Jason’s sorry that he recognises him. 

“Hey—woah now,” he says in a thick Jersey accent. He raises his hands in surrender, tacky signet rings glinting in the dull light.

“Where’s Stevenson?” he asks, glad to hear his anger clearly transmitted through the voice modulator in his helmet.

“He got booked by the cops, alright?” Which is really code for _I took him out. Because this is my city, and that’s what I do._

Jason makes a show of clicking off the safety. “Why are you here?”

“Well it looks like I got a promotion, huh? Name’s Malone, but everyone calls me Matches,” he says pointing to the matchstick dangling out of the corner of his mouth and accompanying the gesture with a sleazy smile that draws attention to his pencil moustache.

“Name’s Red Hood, and everyone calls me the Red Hood.” Matches laughs at that, loud and boisterous like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard. He pushes past Jason, totally heedless of his gun, and makes himself comfortable on the ratty old sofa that had been abandoned along with the apartment.

“I like you kid, you’ve got spunk. Lotsa people don’t make it in this town but you, you’ve got _grit,_ ” he says flashing his teeth.

“That’s a real high compliment, coming from a guy like you.” _I neither want nor need your approval._

Jason drags a chair opposite the sofa and sits on it backwards, keeping his gun drawn. He’s furious, downright _livid_ that Bruce would interfere like this, and he wants nothing more than to punch the fake moustache off his face, crush those dumb glasses under his boot and force Bruce to look him in the eye, to be straight with him.

But this is _Bruce_ , and nothing ever comes easy where he’s concerned.

“Talk,” he says, simple and direct.

“Well,” Matches says, leaning forward like he’s about to share some great conspiracy, “word is on the street that you haven’t been around much.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, me and my guys been getting a little restless, y’know? Wondering if maybe you’d got _got_.”

Jason grits his teeth, grateful that the helmet is hiding his frustration. He should have known that avoiding Bruce would have culminated in something like this, he just wishes he didn’t have to put up with the bullshit charade. “Well that’s sweet of you to worry, but I assure you everything’s under control.”

“That’s not what I heard. Word is that Hassen and his boys got taken in by the GCPD. They were cutting the shit with something nasty and a buncha people died.” _You said you would keep them in line and you failed._ “Heard it was one of them Batkids who—”

“Don’t,” he grits out, pointing his gun right at Matches’ heart, at _Bruce’s_ heart.

“I’m just sayin’ boss,” he says innocently, “we could do with a hand around here from time to—”

Jason kicks aside his chair and lunges at Matches before he can even finish. Within seconds he has him pinned to the sofa with all his weight, the tip of his 9mm wedged under his jaw. Jason rips off his tacky glasses then grabs a fistful of Matches’ greasy hair with his free hand to hold him in place.

“Geez kid, they don’t exaggerate about you. Hair-trigger temper and all.”

“Shut up,” Jason growls, clocking him with the gun for good measure. He’s more than a little gratified to see that he’s split Matches’ lip and tries to imagine what inexplicable lie Bruce Wayne will concoct to explain that. The way Matches runs his tongue over the cut could only be described as lewd, and when he accompanies it with a wink and a roll of his hips, Jason grips his gun so hard he starts to lose feeling in his fingers.

“Now you listen to me,” he says, jabbing Matches with gun for emphasis, “you stay out of my business. And you stay off my turf. I don’t know who _promoted_ you but at this point, you’re lucky I don’t blow your brains out.”

“Alright I’m sorry. Maybe there’s some way I can make it up to you?” he asks with another wink, and Matches always _has_ been completely fucking shameless. It’s not until he runs his hands up Jason’s thighs to rest on his hips that Jason realises his pin means he’s practically sitting in Matches’ lap. Jason moves to adjust his position but Matches holds him still. “Do you always get off on knocking people around, or is there something special about me, huh?” Jason clocks him again and this time Matches groans in a way that’s definitely sexual.

“There is nothing special about you,” he says, punctuating each word with a jab of his gun to the hollow of Matches’ throat. But Jason would be lying if he said he hadn’t been half-hard since Matches arrived, and now with Matches’ (Bruce’s) hands on his hips and Matches (Bruce) beneath him, he’s having a hard time maintaining his composure.

“Well you sure know how to treat a guy, don’t ya? Come on, let me make it up to you, I’ll show you a good time.”

Jason grits his teeth, grateful that the helmet is hiding his face and allowing a barrier between himself and Matches. Now with the sunglasses gone, the illusion is fractured, incomplete. It’s Matches’ voice, Matches’ suit and Matches’ hideous moustache, but those are _Bruce’s_ eyes, and Jason can’t quite figure out what his play is here. But whatever it is, Jason’s never been one to back down from a challenge, and there’s a part of him that wants to push this just to see how far Bruce will allow it.

“Will it make you shut up? In that case, be my guest,” he says, gesturing at his crotch. And for one terrifying moment, Jason’s certain he’s crossed a line, that the illusion will rapidly evaporate and it will just be Bruce and Jason on a dirty couch in some rundown apartment in the Narrows. But then Bruce’s—no _Matches’_ —eyes flash with something like desire, and suddenly he’s grabbing Jason’s ass, feeling him up through the fabric of his pants.

“Hurry up and get on with it,” Jason says, holstering the gun.

“So _demanding_ ,” is the reply, and the voice, the inflection—that’s all Malone, and maybe, just maybe Jason can retain some plausible deniability.

Jason’s about to make another threat when suddenly Matches is planting two hands under his ass and lifting them both off the couch as if he weighed 50 pounds. Jason reflexively wraps his legs around Matches’ waist just seconds before Malone slams him none too gently into the adjacent wall. Jason bites back a curse, frustrated that he’s allowed Matches to get the upper hand.

Matches supports him with one hand while the other undoes Jason’s pants, and it’s not until he wraps his rough and calloused palm around his dick that it finally sets in that _this is actually happening_. Fuck Matches, this is _Bruce’s_ hand around him, jerking him off with the perfect amount of pressure, with the same finesse he applies to every aspect of his life. Bruce takes a moment to press his thumb against the slit, smearing precome around the head, and Jason damn-near arches off the wall, one hand gripping Matches’ ugly suit while the other scrabbles at the drywall, trying to find purchase.

Bruce chuckles deeply in his throat, but it’s Matches’ laugh, through and through. “So _needy_ ,” he says.

For the first time Jason resents the helmet, that he can’t telegraph the vicious glare that’s hidden behind the Red Hood’s lenses. But maybe it’s better like this, because that would mean rising to Bruce’s taunt and reading into the layers of subtext that he’s not sure he wants to examine.

So instead he plays the hand Bruce has dealt him.

“That’s rich coming from you Malone, you always were a lecherous son of a bitch,” Jason grits out. His eyes soften at the acknowledgement of a shared history between them, even if it is buried beneath half a dozen layers of deceit. He releases Jason’s dick and before Jason can even protest he’s being set down and Matches is sinking gracefully his knees, his eyes dark with intent, matchstick long gone.

“You don’t have to— _oh_ ,” he breathes out as Matches sucks him all the way down in one fluid movement. What was he even going to say? You don’t have to make this in any way intimate? You don’t have to pretend that this is something you actually want, and not just some fucked-up game you’re playing?

A fresh wave of anger washes over him and it’s enough to distract him from the slick heat of Matches’ mouth. This tension has been building between them forever and a day, and yeah, Jason would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about this, thought about it _a lot_ , even. But instead of enjoying this moment that he’s fantasied about for longer than he’d care to admit, he’s too busy staring at Matches’ stupid moustache from within the confines of his stupid helmet, and Jason resents Bruce for ruining this moment for him.

But if Bruce wants to do impersonal, Jason can meet him halfway at least. He grabs a fistful of Matches’ hair and forces him deeper on his dick, feeling his float flutter and constrict around him as he rhythmically pumps his hips.

“That’s it Malone, take it all the way,” he says, his voice sounding cold even to his own ears, the effect amplified by his voice modulator. Matches still keeps up the suction even though Jason’s more or less fucking his face by this point, and when Jason finally comes down his throat, he throws his head back against the wall so hard that pieces of plaster rain down on them like snow.

“Fuck,” Jason says, slumping bonelessly against the wall as he refastens his pants. Matches, he can’t help but notice, is visibly hard in his ugly slacks. Jason’s about to offer to return the favour when—

“So you gonna be sticking around in Gotham, then?” Matches must have retrieved the glasses while Jason was fixing his pants because when he meets his eyes, he’s confronted with his own reflection. There’s a fresh matchstick dangling out of the corner of his mouth, and the mask is well and truly back in place.

Jason regards him for a long moment, weighing up his options, and decides on the only reasonable course of action.

“No,” he says shortly, and jumps out the open window.

 

: : :

 

Jason does come back to Gotham, of course. Bruce’s messages—as stilted and terse as ever—have been growing increasingly frequent, and as loathe as Jason is to admit it, it’s probably about time he makes a personal call. Well, that and the fact that Penguin has just orchestrated the biggest arms deal that Gotham’s seen in the last decade—an arms deal that the Red Hood successfully intercepted with a few well-placed explosives. With the weapons turned to ash and Penguin’s payment secured, Jason’s got a few creative ideas on how he can launder the stolen money.

The Iceberg Lounge, true to its name, sits shrouded in ice on the edge of Gotham Harbour. Jason always fantasised about going there as a kid, imagined what it would be like to sip fancy cocktails overlooking the water. As it turns out, the reality is far less appealing; the Lounge is populated with the sort of upper-class socialites that Jason always resented, the kind that frequented the fundraisers and benefits that Bruce always used to make him attend. The kind that always turned their nose up at him.

But business is business, and Jason’s got a job to do. He approaches the bar and orders a Jack and coke, his fake Texan accent sounding ridiculous even to his own ears. He was never really good at this undercover stuff; that was always Bruce’s thing. When Jason turned fifteen, Bruce promised they would spend less time on physical training and more work on espionage and detective skills. But then—

“Anything else for you, sir?”  

“That’ll be all, thank you kindly ma’am,” he says, nervously smoothing his fingers over his fake moustache and pushing his tinted shades up the bridge of his nose. He orders 50k in chips from another counter, wondering how anyone could possibly be buying the accent, then settles in at the blackjack table. He’s still not really sure what cover he’s constructing here, but he figures that if he dials up the asshole level to 11, he should blend right in.

He manages to nearly double his investment over the next hour and is well onto his second drink when a server appears at his elbow, holding another.

“I didn’t order this,” he says rudely, taking note of her name so he can tip her later.

“It’s courtesy of Mr Wayne,” she says reluctantly, and Jason damn near chokes. He swivels on his chair to look where she’s pointing and lo and behold, it’s Bruce Wayne, Prince of Gotham, surrounded by no fewer than six supermodels. He makes eye contact with Bruce through the crowd and raises the proffered drink to him as a gesture of thanks. The bastard fucking _winks_ at him, and all Jason can do is clench his jaw.

After that, Jason hits a losing streak. All he can think of is the last time he saw Bruce and if he’s honest, he’s thought of little else since. But there’s a familiar sense of unease gnawing at the pit of his stomach. Jason’s dissected the situation from every possible angle, and he still cannot fathom what Bruce was playing at. But whatever his game, Jason’s not going to let him have the upper hand; he’s going to get him back, tit for tat.

He closes the table, making a joke about how lady luck has abandoned him, and makes for the lounge area. On his way, he orders two whiskeys, the exact brand that Bruce likes, the one he would only ever indulge in on special occasions. Bruce openly appraises him as he approaches, looking like something off the cover of a gossip mag; suit worth more than Jason’s entire wardrobe combined, and a million-dollar smile plastered on his perfect, handsome face.

“Well if it isn’t Mr Wayne himself!” Bruce laughs in response, loud and melodic. It’s his public laugh. Jason hates Bruce’s public laugh.

“Please, Mr Wayne was my father,” Bruce says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “My friends call me Brucie. And you are—?”

“Billy O’Connor.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Bruce says, shaking Jason’s hand. He shivers a little, feeling callouses and scars beneath his fingers, knowing how powerful those hands are, what they can do. The handshake lasts a beat too long, and Jason’s heart is already racing from the simple contact.

“Please, take a seat,” he says, motioning to a vacant spot opposite him. “So, Mr O’Connor—”

“Billy.”

“Yes, _Billy_ ,” says Bruce with a smile that’s all teeth. “What brings you to Gotham? Business or pleasure?”

“Business, I’m ‘fraid,” Jason replies, unsure of how much longer he can keep up this ridiculous accent.

“Ah well, you know what they say; no rest for the wicked,” he says with another infuriating laugh, and Jason tries his damndest not to read into that, not to rise to the taunt, but—

“How’s business for you? Heard you lost a few partners lately, that they’ve made some deals with the competition. Hate to think how that’s impacted your market standing.”

Bruce laughs again and Jason’s urge to kick his teeth in rises dramatically. “Oh please Mr O’Connor, I wouldn’t believe everything you read, these things are always more complex than they seem.”

A server appears with their drinks and Jason bites off his retort before it can pass his lips. Instead, he raises his glass to Bruce and says, “to your health,” with a little more joviality than he feels is truly convincing. Bruce raises his own glass to his nose and inhales deeply, his eyes fluttering closed. A small smile forms on his lips as he recognises the aroma, a smile that’s all Bruce and nothing at all like Bruce Wayne.

“To yours,” he says with an intensity in his eyes that makes Jason’s cock twitch. Jason watches him pretend to take a sip, just as he’s seen him do so many times at parties and fundraisers, then set the drink down. “It’s nice,” he says blandly as if it weren’t the only drink he ever allows himself to enjoy, and Jason—

Jason can’t do this again, can’t do the lies, the charade, the duplicity. If he’s going to talk to Bruce, it’s going to be _Bruce_ , and he can’t do that sprawled out on lounge surrounded by half a dozen adoring women in a nightclub owned by a known criminal.

“Tell ya something, what’s say you and I head out for a cigar? Hate to tear you away from these lovely ladies but—”

“Oh nonsense, that sounds wonderful! Ladies, would you excuse us?” He doesn’t even wait for a response before he rises from the table.

Jason leads him out of the lounge and up a flight of stairs. It’s quieter here; most people are in the western end of the club which gives them a view of the harbour, and that suits Jason just fine.

“I think the smoking terrace is the other way,” Bruce says mildly.

“Is it?” Jason asks distractedly, all traces of Texan gone from his voice.

Finally, Jason finds what he’s looking for. The bathroom he pulls Bruce into is blessedly empty, and Jason wedges the door shut with a knife he had concealed in his boot. He’s suddenly aware of the fact that he’s breathing rapidly, his pulse staccato-quick in his throat.

And Bruce—Bruce is just _watching_ him, standing on the other side of the room with his hands clasped behind his back, a polite smile plastered on his vacant face. Jason’s waiting for him to do _something_ , to hit him or kiss him or even just break character for five seconds, but he just stands there, smiling blandly.

Jason’s had it. He let Bruce push him last time when he was Malone, and now it’s Jason’s turn to push back. Without any warning, he crosses the room and slams Bruce against the wall. Gives Bruce about half a second to push him away before he crashes their mouths together and fucks his tongue into his mouth. Bruce is pliant beneath him, and when Jason grinds their hips together they both groan and Jason’s gratified to feel that Bruce is as hard as he is in his ridiculously expensive suit.

They’re both panting by the time they break apart, and Jason cradles Bruce’s face in his hands, expecting to have pushed past some sort of barrier, to have finally connected with something _real_ but—

“You know tiger, if you’d wanted to meet for a clandestine rendezvous, you only needed to ask,” he says, nipping at Jason’s lower lip.

“ _Bruce_ ,” he growls.

“Please, call me Brucie,” he simpers, and that just about burns through the last of Jason’s rapidly-fraying patience. He grabs Bruce by the collar and throws him back against the bathroom’s vanity, pushing him with all his weight so Bruce is arched back over the counter and their hips are flush with each other.

Jason loses himself in the dual sensations of kissing Bruce and grinding against him for all of five seconds before Bruce breaks the kiss and says, “if you like it rough, you should have just said so.” Before Jason can even process what he’s said, Bruce has performed a complicated manoeuvre that sees their positions reversed; suddenly Bruce is bending him over the vanity, the long lines of his body pressed along Jason’s back and a powerful hand at the nape of his neck holding him in place. There’s a large ornate mirror over the vanity and Jason’s confronted with his own reflection, his unconvincing disguise adding to the absurdity of the situation.

“I practice krav maga in my spare time,” he says inanely, nipping Jason’s ear, “it’s done wonders for my abs.”

“ _Bruce_ ,” Jason growls again, feeling a little less threatening now that he’s reminded that he’s wearing a ridiculous moustache and a pair of glasses that should have never made it out of the ‘80s. He raises a hand to rip them off but Bruce catches his wrist and pins it behind his back with a strength that never ceases to amaze him.

“No leave them on, I like them, they’re _retro_.” The message is clear: _play along, or else._ Bruce releases his wrist and snakes a hand under Jason’s shirt to pinch his nipples, making Jason gasp and writhe against him. His ass is flush with Bruce’s crotch, rubbing against Bruce’s erection, and his expression in the mirror doesn’t so much as falter at the contact.

Jason is already cursing himself. He was so determined that this time it would be different, that it would be Jason dealing the hand and Bruce would have no choice but to fold. But somehow Bruce has got the upper hand, and fuck Jason for even being surprised, really. The truly pathetic thing is he can’t even bring himself to stay pissed, because the moment the thought occurs to him is precisely the moment that Bruce gets a hand into his pants and begins to jack him off.

“Oh, jesus,” Jason moans, completely boneless save from where he’s propped up on his elbows, his sweaty forehead resting on the mirror’s surface.

“I already told you, call me Brucie,” he chuckles and christ, why is every single one of Bruce’s alter egos so mind-numbingly infuriating?

Jason’s saved the trouble of replying because Bruce is suddenly dropping to his knees, yanking his pants down his ankles, spreading his cheeks and—

“ _Oh_.” Jason scrabbles ineffectively at the smooth surface of the mirror as Bruce licks around the rim of his hole, his movements torturously slow. He’s still got one hand on his cock, not stroking him, just squeezing every so often. Jason’s caught between his hand and his mouth, and it’s both too much and not enough at the same time.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he moans, reaching a hand behind him and tangling it in Bruce’s hair. “God, if I had known this was all it would have taken to shut you up, I would have gotten you to do this ten minutes ago.” Bruce has no verbal means of retaliation, but he does start spearing Jason with his tongue, working it in and out of him in a way that makes Jason’s thighs tremble.

“Jesus,” he says again. “Shit, I had no idea this was your thing, _Brucie,_ ” because yeah, Jason can play at this too. “Thought you liked ‘em blonde and, y’know, female.” Jason feels rather than hears Bruce growl against him, but Jason has always run his mouth a mile a minute, and Bruce should know him better than that by now. “Wonder what—ah shit—wonder what the tabloids would say about this. Bruce Wayne on his knees in some bathroom, in his ten thousand dollar Armani suit, eating some guy’s ass and—oh _fuck,_ ” he moans when Bruce removes his mouth and pushes two fingers inside him, rubbing insistently.

“You were saying?” Bruce asks mildly, and Jason’s sure that if he were to turn, he would be wearing that same polite smile from earlier.

“Nothing,” he says quickly. He spreads his legs as far as he can with his pants still around his ankles and angles his hips so he can fuck himself on Bruce’s fingers. “Nothing, I just—please Bruce, just fuck me already, you know I’m good for it.” Bruce doesn’t reply, just continues methodically working him open, his grip on Jason’s dick never faltering. “C’mon Bruce, you know I can take it.”

“Hmm, I’m not so sure about that,” he says, biting one of his cheeks lightly, making Jason squirm.

“Screw you, why can’t you ever trust me to know what I can and can’t handle?”

Bruce is quiet for a long moment and Jason’s throat constricts when he realises that maybe he’s pushed it too far. But suddenly Bruce is murmuring “okay,” in a way that sounds more like himself than anything else he’s said this evening. He withdraws his fingers and Jason barely bites back a whine, before he’s grabbing Jason by his hair and pulling his head back to kiss him. He lets go of Jason’s dick to work on his own pants and this time Jason _does_ whine, so incredibly impatient to have Bruce inside him.

“C’mon,” he says as Bruce slicks himself up with some of the fancy lotion on the vanity. Both of them are silent as Bruce pushes in, the only sound being Jason’s small gasps as he forces himself to relax around Bruce’s cock. “I—oh god, _christ_ ,” he moans once Bruce is in all the way, and Jason can’t handle it anymore, he rips off the glasses and tosses them across the room so he can look at Bruce through the mirror, his eyes hooded and hazy.

“God, Bruce, I’ve wanted this for so—,” but Bruce silences him by shoving two fingers in his mouth, and Jason flushes at how brazen he looks, like something out of a terrible porno. Jason moans around Bruce’s fingers once Bruce starts moving inside him, and Jason sees or maybe imagines the exact moment that the mask fades away and it’s just the two of them.

Bruce starts jacking him in a counterpoint to his thrusts, and when he bites down on his neck, Jason knows he’s done for. He shouts around Bruce’s fingers and comes all over Bruce’s hand, while his own scrabble uselessly at the countertop. Bruce’s rhythm doesn’t falter for a second, driving into Jason relentlessly, even as he slumps bonelessly against the vanity. Bruce removes his fingers from Jason’s mouth and braces an arm across his chest, forcing his back into an arch. Bruce’s other hand is braced against the countertop, and Jason instinctively lays his own hand over Bruce’s and links their fingers together. Their eyes meet in the mirror and suddenly Bruce is coming too, his hips stuttering as he thrusts one last time, holding Jason tightly against him and never once breaking eye contact.

Bruce slumps on top of him and they stay like that for several moments, catching their breath while Jason thinks of something to say.

Distantly, he realises that their fingers are still intertwined.

“Well tiger that was fun—,” and really, Jason doesn’t know what he expected, “—but I think I best be headed back to the lounge.” Jason can’t move, can’t even bring himself to look up from where his head’s cradled in his arms. He can hear the sound of Bruce adjusting his clothing, the sound of a faucet running. The echo of his Italian leather shoes grows fainter until finally—

“It was nice meeting you, Barry!”

—and then the door is opening and closing, and he’s gone.

Eventually, Jason brings himself to clean up and redress, his muscles aching the way they always do after a good fight. Coming back to Gotham was stupid, he should know better than this by now. He decides to cut his losses and head out of the club, saying a prayer that he runs into neither Bruce nor Penguin on the way out.

It’s not until he’s halfway across the lobby that he realises the bastard made off with his knife.

 

: : :

 

After the Iceberg Lounge, Jason’s evasiveness goes from “accidentally on purpose” to “very fucking intentional.” Rather than just ignore Bruce’s messages, he goes the extra mile and destroys what he’s come to think of as his ‘Batphone’. When the device miraculously survives a 9-storey drop off the side of a building—and damn, WayneTech really is something else—he shoots it until there’s nothing left, feeling something in his chest ease when the screen splutters and dies.

He takes a few jobs in the months that follow, some stateside and some abroad—small-scale stuff that allows him to get his hands dirty with the kind of crooks who have truly earned a horrible, protracted death. Regardless of the job, he’s always sure to give Gotham a wide berth, which means he almost always ends up in Star City between jobs.

“You know you could always get your own place,” Roy says, although he doesn’t sound particularly irritated. “It’s not like you haven’t amassed enough cash through committing morally dubious deeds.”

“Yeah but then who would kick your ass at Call of Duty?” He illustrates his point by shooting Roy’s character in the crotch.

“Fuck!” he shouts and throws the controller directly at Jason’s face, hitting him squarely in the jaw. “Not so tough without your dumb helmet, huh?”

“You’d better watch your mouth Harper, I know where you sleep,” he says, retaliating by pegging the TV remote at him.

Roy grabs a couch cushion but is interrupted by his phone vibrating on the coffee table. Jason turns his attention back to the game, intent on gaining some advantage so he can beat Roy again.

“Huh,” says Roy after a long moment.

“What’s up?” he asks, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“Earth’s being invaded by aliens.”

“Oh no, not again,” he deadpans.

“I know you’re joking, but it’s actually already happened twice this year and it’s getting to be a real drag,” he says, trying and failing to stifle a yawn. “Apparently half the JL is off-planet so they’re calling in all hands on deck. Wanna come and fight ‘em with me?”

Jason resolutely keeps his eyes on the game even though he’s essentially running in circles by this point. “I’m not a Titan, Roy.”

“Well no, but I can vouch for you, right? Besides you’re practically an honorary Titan considering half your family—”

“They’re not my family,” he says quickly.

“—half the _Bats_ are all members of the League or the Titans.”

And when it comes down to it, it’s not like Jason doesn’t _want_ to be a hero and save the world. He tends to disagree with the vast majority of the Justice League on what actually constitutes justice, but here’s an instance where they see eye-to-eye, and he’s privately grateful that he doesn’t have to be the bad guy for once. The real problem is that while half of the Justice League is off-planet, he knows for a fact that Bruce is not among them, and the prospect of seeing Bruce is—

“Besides, weren’t you a Teen Titan for like five minutes back before, y’know?”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “’Before y’know?’ Don’t be crass Harper, I’ve always maintained that levity will be your downfall.”

“Sorry,” he says not sounding sorry at all. “Anyway, I thought this could be a good time to field test a prototype I developed. You know, the one for the bullets that explode on contact?”

“Bullets that _what?_ ”

“It’s cool if you don’t wanna,” he says feigning nonchalance, and Jason knows he’s going to regret this but there’s no way he’s going to pass up shooting aliens with _exploding bullets_.

They suit up and, after a brief but heated debate on whose bike to take, make their way to Star City’s Zeta-Beam. “Well this is cosy,” says Roy as they cram themselves into the police box.

“Welcome B06: Arsenal; B13: Robin,” announces the cool voice of the Watchtower’s computer system.

“You should really have them update that for you, zombie boy.”

“I thought we agreed that only I was allowed to make jokes about my extremely traumatic murder,” he says with more bite than he intended. The prospect of seeing Bruce again has him on edge, even though it seems sort of trivial considering the fate of the earth potentially hangs in the balance. But really, it shouldn’t be an issue: the Watchtower is going to be full of commotion with people running this way and that as they organise themselves into teams. Really, the chances of him running into Bruce are so slim that Jason might as well—

The police box is engulfed in a silver glow and when it fades, Batman is standing before them, blocking their exit from the Zeta Pod.

“Arsenal.” A pause. Then, “Red Hood.”

“Actually, apparently he’s still Robin. But don’t tell the new kid, he’ll be deva—”

“I heard there was a call to arms,” he says, interrupting Roy, “and that the League was requesting the presence of anyone who could help.” _I’m not doing this for you._

Batman’s expression doesn’t shift. “That’s right,” comes the terse reply. _I know_.

Jason pushes past Batman to join the masses of people waiting for their assignments. He recognises some of them by sight, if not by name, but most of them are completely unfamiliar to him. Nobody seems to want to get too close to him, their eyes flickering between the bat on his chest and the guns holstered on his thighs, questioning.

Roy, of course, knows everyone. He works his way through the crowd, greeting people in that easy way of his, as if this were a high school reunion and not a last-ditch attempt to save humanity. Jason hangs back, not feeling particularly inclined to talk to anyone, and jams his helmet on once the weight of everyone’s stares becomes too much to bear.

“Alright everyone listen up,” says someone who Jason doesn’t recognise, “we’re gonna lay out the mission ops so if we could please have your attention...”

Jason shouldn’t be surprised to see Batman step up, but if he is, he’s the only one. It seems that everyone just assumed Batman would be running point on this operation, and with him standing before them now, it’s hard to imagine a better leader.

Batman outlines all of the conditions in clear and precise detail, explains the aliens’ physiology and their weak points, and proposes relevant attack manoeuvres. The aliens are coming to earth through various fixed portals, and Batman explains his strategy on how to ambush them, outlining the best tactical formations to ensure maximum damage. His strategy is nothing short of genius; Gotham’s criminals are afraid of Batman because he’s got a nasty right hook and a resolve that’s matched by no other. But this, right here, is his true strength—his brilliant tactical mind that has outwitted even the most intelligent of criminals. Looking around, it’s clear that everyone trusts him implicitly. They’re putting their lives in his hands, trusting that he would never do anything to recklessly endanger them, and it’s obvious that they have complete faith in his strategy, would follow it through to the bitter end.

It's disturbingly familiar.

“…Which leaves Team Sigma: Hawkgirl, Arsenal, Red Hood and Animal Man. You’ll be taking on the Tokyo portal.”

“Sweet,” whispers Roy, somewhere to his left.

After the mission briefing, everyone swarms to the Zeta-Beams in a mass of organised chaos, Batman standing among them offering further delegations and instructions. Jason and Roy manage to find the rest of their team and head to a free pod, the four of them cramming in with Hawkgirl’s wings taking up most of the space and the tip of Roy’s bow nearly taking out Animal Man’s eye.

With the four of them finally assembled on the pod, Jason looks up and through the swarm of people, finds that Batman is looking directly at him. And to anyone else it might look like nothing, but Jason’s used to reading Bruce through the cowl, can see right through the façade. Bruce’s lips are pressed together in a hard line, and there’s a tick in his jaw where he’s gritting his teeth. Jason’s heart leaps into his throat at the intensity of his gaze, until Bruce bows his head slightly and gives him a curt nod.

_I have faith in you. Be safe._

Jason is about to mirror Bruce’s movement but Hawkgirl enters their coordinates at that precise moment, and the world dissolves in a swirl of silver light.

 

 

After all the song and dance, the alien invasion is honestly kind of a let-down. The aliens themselves are insect-like, more like human-sized locusts than the highly advanced beings Jason was imagining, and they seem to have no real strategy beyond “swarm en masse.” Still, running through the streets of Tokyo and firing off explosives will never not be cool, and he’s missed fighting side by side with Roy, keeping each other’s backs without so much as a word passed between them.

The alien’s blood is black and sticky, like motor oil mixed with molasses, and Jason is covered in it by the night’s end. He’s also got a deep wound on the back of his shoulder that he can’t deal with himself, and with Roy concussed after they were struck by a falling street light (“see, looks like my ‘dumb helmet’ was good for something after all”), Jason has no choice but to return to the Watchtower for medical attention.

Medbay is full of people with minor injuries, but no one seems to be grievously wounded. A frazzled-looking nurse attends to his injury and stitches him up in double time, then shoos him away so someone else can have the bed.

Jason’s still waiting on Roy and with medbay off-limits, he finds himself wandering the halls, trying to work off some of that pent-up adrenaline. Eventually he comes upon the Watchtower’s main briefing room, the one with the fabled roundtable where a dozen or so self-appointed individuals decide the fate of the whole world.

He’s unsurprised to find Batman there, alone. He’s still suited up, hasn’t even pushed back the cowl or removed the gauntlets, and is pouring over what look like debriefing reports. Jason stands in the doorframe, hands in his pockets, and stares through the viewscreen into the vastness of space for a long minute before he finally speaks.

“I heard there were no casualties.”

Batman doesn’t look up or even acknowledge Jason’s sudden appearance, and Jason is not surprised: it’ll be a cold day in hell when Jason can get one-up on Bruce. “Yes.”

“That’s good news,” he says, stepping into the room. He bypasses Batman and paces towards the viewscreen, hands clasped behind his back.

“It is.”

Jason chuckles, “this sure is like old times, huh? Me, vying for your attention. And you, ignoring me.” He’s got his back to Batman, and even if he couldn’t see him in the reflection, he knows exactly the kind of expression he’d be wearing right now.

Batman breathes out a small puff of air which is as close as he ever gets to actually sighing. “I don’t want to argue with you.”

Jason snorts, half-pivoting to face him. “Yeah ‘cause that ever gets us anywhere. I just wanted to say—,” and there’s that uncomfortable feeling from earlier, the one that makes him feel like his heart’s in his throat, strangling his voice and leaving him gasping for air.

“I just wanted to say that you were great tonight,” he says, feeling the heat rise in his face—and suddenly he’s just a dumb kid again with more hero-worship than he knows what to do with, and it’s funny how some things never fucking change. “You had a plan, a good plan, and everyone followed your orders and it worked, B. We won.” He’s completely vulnerable without his helmet or even a domino, his face earnest and open. But Batman isn’t even looking at him, his line of sight fixed on a spot about halfway down the table. Jason stands there for the longest time, feeling stupid and foolish, wondering why he even fucking bothers considering everything Bruce has put him through.

After what feels like an eternity, it’s clear that Batman isn’t going to acknowledge him, so he just mutters “whatever, that’s all I had to say,” and makes a beeline for the door. But as he passes the table, Batman grabs his wrist lightning-fast, the press of his gloves feeling like a brand on Jason’s skin.

“Computer, authorise security override. Zero two Batman: code gamma theta four beta.”

“Security override authorised,” replies the computer as the doors slide shut of their own accord. “Security cameras: disengaged. External entry: prohibited.”

Jason swallows around the lump in his throat. “B—”

“Come here,” Batman murmurs, and that’s his command voice, the one Jason’s learned to obey instinctively. And this time—this time is no exception. He climbs onto Batman’s chair, straddling his thighs, and it’s gratifying that Batman has to look up to meet his eyes.

“B,” Jason says again and it comes out as a whine. Without warning, Batman closes the space between them, steadying him with a hand at the nape of his neck and pushing their mouths together hungrily. Jason parts his lips and allows himself to be devoured, moaning when their tongues slide together. Batman keeps a grip on his wrist the whole time as if he’s scared Jason will run off, but once their hips align and they press against each other through far too many layers of fabric and kevlar, Jason knows he’s a goner, that he couldn’t tear himself away even if he wanted to. It’s not long before Jason’s moaning into Batman’s mouth, his free hand scrabbling at the smooth surface of the suit, and he would resent it for keeping Bruce from him if he hadn’t fantasised about this exact situation for the better part of the last decade.

Eventually Jason tears himself away, breathless. “Please, can I just—?”

Batman’s immobile for a long moment, but when Jason sinks to his knees between his spread legs he’s quick to facilitate. “Yes,” he says, undoing the fastenings on the suit, removing the kevlar plates and pushing his leggings down. His dick is hard and leaking, and Jason’s mouth actually waters at the sight. He looks up at him, asking for permission with his eyes, and when Batman offers him a small nod, he wraps his hand around the base and squeezes. His hips jerk of their own accord, and when Jason starts working his hand up and down the length, he’s gratified to see Batman’s legendary control begin to waver.

“May I?” he asks, looking up through his lashes into the lenses of the cowl. He grips the base of his dick with one hand and rests the head against his lower lip, an obvious invitation.

“You may,” he says, voice as even as ever, but Jason doesn’t miss the way his thighs are trembling. Jason wraps his lips around the head and laves the precome that’s formed there, works his mouth further and further down. He’s huge and it’s a struggle to take him all the way, but Jason gets a solid rhythm going, using his hand on whatever he can’t take in his mouth and synchronising his movements. Jason himself is achingly hard in his pants, dizzy with a need to be touched, and it only makes his movements that more fervent.

Batman on the other hand, is showing little to no outward signs of being affected. His breathing is long, deep and even, and Jason would bet that he’s is using biofeedback techniques to regulate his heart rate. Aside from the sporadic twitches in his thighs, his only giveaway is the fact that his hands are balled into fists on the armrests of the chair as if he’s making a conscious effort not to reach out and touch. And god, what Jason wouldn’t give to have those hands buried in his hair, holding him still while Batman fucks his face. But Jason’s taught himself not to be greedy where Bruce is concerned, to take what he’s allowed and never ask for more, so he ignores the ache in his jaw and redoubles his efforts, accepts that this is as close as he’s ever going to get to what he wants.

Jason notes that the increased pace seems to be having its desired effect when Batman’s hands begin to rhythmically clench and unclench by his sides. He eases off a little for a moment to look up at him, trying to gauge how close he is, and again feels incredibly vulnerable gazing into the white lenses of the cowl while his own eyes are exposed, unguarded. He knows how he must look: his mouth wet with spit and precome, hair sweaty and matted with alien blood, eyes wide and desperate.

And Batman—impossibly—reacts to that. He extends a hand to caress Jason’s face, rubbing his thumb along the line of his cheekbone with a reverence that makes something twist in Jason’s gut, the pad of his glove feeling familiar and new all at once. The contact sets Jason’s nerves alight and he moans around his dick, letting his eyes flutter shut, and Batman lets out the tiniest gasp and comes down Jason’s throat. Jason swallows most of it but is sure to pull back so that some of it’s smeared on his lips, then makes a show of licking it off, slow and deliberate. Batman’s face is as impassive as ever, but Jason doesn’t miss the way his cock twitches at the sight, and it feels like a victory.

Jason’s barely even caught his breath when Batman says, “there’s a debrief scheduled in this room in approximately ten minutes.” He’s already tucked himself away and has adjusted his suit, and Jason is still foolishly kneeling between his spread legs, expectant.

He swallows down his humiliation. “I guess I should go.”

“Yes,” says Batman and turns his attention back to his reports, then reverses the security override so the doors open once more. Jason rises to his feet, dizzy with how badly he needs to come, his cock aching within the confines of his pants.

He’s halfway to the door when he hears, cold and unaffected, “thank you for your assistance today, Red Hood.”

Jason bites down his retort, and leaves the room without a backwards glance.

 

: : :

 

Jason spends the next four days holed up in a shitty motel on the outskirts of Star City. He’s in such a terrible mood that he can’t even bring himself to spend time with Roy, instead passing the time by painstakingly replaying and overanalysing every exchange he’s had with Bruce over the last few months, trying to find some explanation for why Bruce has been manipulating him in the cruellest way imaginable.

He knows there’s a way to fix this: he, Jason Todd—no alias, no mask—could go to Gotham, to Wayne Manor, and confront Bruce directly. They could talk it out like the mature, communicative adults they’ve never been, and he can finally put a stop to this bullshit and regain some semblance of a professional working relationship. No more lies, no more deception.

Instead he books a flight to Brazil and spends the next month sleeping on the streets, fighting crime where it lives. His international jobs usually involve large-scale ops and meticulous planning, but now his only plan is to wait for night to fall and the crooks to come out. He dials it back, going back to his roots: no guns, no tech, just his fists, a couple of knives, and whatever weapons he can source from his surroundings. Within days, Jason feels more like himself than he has in months.

It all comes to a rapid end one night. He’s intercepting a mugging, and the perp—really just a kid, sixteen at most—has a gun. Jason knows the type, knows that he has no intention of actually hurting anyone. But when he sees Jason he panics, and Jason’s not quick enough, gets hit just above his hip.

(If Bruce were here he would call him irresponsible for patrolling in civvies with no kevlar for protection. But Bruce isn’t here, and Jason isn’t patrolling.)

Jason’s lucky it’s just a flesh wound, but it more or less necessitates his return back to the States. He has a few boltholes set up along the East Coast, but his primary safehouse is—regretfully—in Gotham, and there’s no way Jason’s going to make it within fifty miles of the city without showing up on Bruce’s radar.

Yet it still comes as a surprise when, three days after his return, he hears a knock on the door. Thinking that it couldn’t possibly be a Bat because since when have they _ever_ used the front door, he checks the cameras and barely bites back a groan. He disengages the security, throws open the door and—

It’s Bruce. No disguise, no costume. Just the man as Jason’s always known him, standing in the hallway outside Jason’s technically non-existent safehouse in a pair of expensive slacks and a cashmere turtleneck. His expression is calm and open, but there’s an uncertainty in the line of his brow, and his hands are clasped in front of him in a stance that Batman would describe as defensive.

“Jason,” he says. Jason’s breath hitches; when was the last time Bruce called him by his name?

“Bruce.”

Bruce takes a deep breath and says without preamble, “Alfred’s birthday is this Sunday. There will be a small party at Wayne Manor.” The words come out smooth and even, and Jason imagines him mentally rehearsing his spiel on the way over. “I know things have been tense between us, but it would mean a lot to him if you were able to make it.”

“It would mean a lot to _him_ , huh?” he says, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

Bruce hesitates for the briefest of moments then says, “may I come in?”

Jason sighs and lets out a muttered, “sure,” stepping aside and locking the door after him. He follows Bruce into the cramped kitchen, suddenly feeling self-conscious in a pair of sweats and an old Sex Pistols tee he swiped from a thrift store.

“Surprised to see you here, but mostly just surprised you used the front door,” he says, leaning against the kitchen counter with a nonchalance that Bruce would know is a front.

“Oh?” asks Bruce mildly. He pulls out one of the battered chairs from the kitchen table and sits gracefully, crossing his legs at the knee. This too is an act, but it’s closer to the truth than Jason’s ever gotten, and he intends to push until he gets there.

“Yeah but I guess it didn’t take you long to realise this whole building is rigged to blow if you tried to force your way in,” he says, examining his fingernails. “Kinda improbable that you found it at all really, considering that I bought out the entire building under a fake name.”

“I have my ways,” says Bruce with a small smile.

“That you do,” he replies, pushing off the counter and circling the table. “It’s even more improbable that you would show up at all considering we’ve fucked three times over the last six months and you’ve made absolutely no acknowledgement of the situation.” Bruce tracks the movement until Jason comes to a stop in front of him, bending over the table with both palms braced on its surface, like this is just a standard interrogation. 

“I realise I have been immeasurably unfair to you,” Bruce says with an incline of his head, and Jason wonders if Bruce rehearsed this part too.

“So that’s it, then? ‘You’ve been played’? Are you going to tell me that this was some sort of test or some fucked-up lesson, or did you really just come here to gloat about how easily you manipulated me?”

“My feelings for you were not insincere—,” and Jason cuts him off with a laugh, sounding cruel even to his own ears. His safehouse is full of weapons—not that his hands aren’t weapons in and of themselves—and he still hasn’t decided how much damage he’s going to inflict before Bruce walks away from this, if he’ll even be able to.

“Yeah, really sincere. Are you talking about that one time you dressed as a gangster and goaded me into fucking your face? Or that other time when you acted like an obnoxious playboy and left me in the bathroom of a nightclub with your come still dripping out of my ass?”

Bruce doesn’t flinch at his words, but his face does shift imperceptibly and that’s good enough for Jason.

“I mean you must have known I had feelings for you, right?”

“Jason—”

“Because why else would you have exploited them to manipulate me?”

“Jason,” he says again, and suddenly he’s right up in Jason’s space, backing him back into the counter with a gentle hand on his chest, so close now that they’re breathing the same air. He raises his hands to Jason’s face, cradling it softly, and then kisses him in the slow and gentle way that it’s never been between them.

“Bruce—,” says Jason, half-heartedly pushing at Bruce’s shoulders.

But then Bruce says his name again and gently encircles Jason’s wrists with his hands; not holding him there with any force, just anchoring him, reassuring.

_I won’t hurt you again._

And even though Jason his still angry, still _hurt_ , he acts against his better judgement: he yields, lets himself go lax beneath Bruce’s hands, and their kiss grows more fervent, desperate. Bruce loosely pins his wrists to the cupboards over Jason’s head, forcing his back into an arch that triggers a twinge of pain from his injury. But when their hips align Jason is helpless to resist, finds he can’t stop moving against Bruce, grinding incessantly.

“Can I just say,” says Jason, breaking the kiss to nip at Bruce’s jaw, “that you are incredibly, supremely, and unbelievably fucked-up?”

There’s a rumble from deep in Bruce’s chest that’s not Malone, not Wayne, just Bruce, and it warms Jason right up.

“It has been remarked upon.”

“But like really,” he says, sucking a bruise into the side of Bruce’s throat, “how messed up is it that _I’m_ the mature adult in this situation?”

Bruce chuckles again and releases his wrists, one of his hands dropping down to squeeze his uninjured hip while the other rakes through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He kisses Jason deeply and Jason imagines he’s saying _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_ , but what he actually says is, “do you have a bed?”

Jason makes a hungry noise against Bruce’s mouth and pushes him backwards in the direction of the bedroom. They break apart and Jason strips within seconds, but Bruce spots the gauze on his hip and pauses.

“What happened,” he asks, running a tentative hand along the edge of the bandage.

Jason gets his hands under Bruce’s sweater, and the fact that he’s finally allowed to touch Bruce is intoxicating. “Does it matter? Jesus Bruce, it’s just a gunshot wound.”

Bruce pulls away and there’s a concern in his eyes that makes Jason’s heart ache. _I couldn’t bear to lose you. Not again._

“Hey,” he says, cradling Bruce’s face in his hands, “hey, look it’s okay, alright? I’m fine, it’s just a flesh wound. We’ve both had worse,” he says and kisses Bruce again, feeling some of the tension melt from his shoulders.

He gets his hands back under Bruce’s sweater, muttering, “why is it that you’re always wearing so many goddamn clothes?” Bruce smiles against his mouth and gently pushes Jason back onto the bed as he begins to undress, first toeing off his shoes. His sweater and undershirt come next, muscles rippling as he pulls them over his head, and Jason is hypnotised, taking note of every detail, a part of him not believing that this won’t be the last time.

Jason is hard and leaking precome onto his abs, and when Bruce shucks his pants down over the sharp angles of his hips he reaches down to wrap his hand around his cock, stifling a moan. Within seconds, Bruce is completely naked and is joining Jason on the bed, covering Jason’s hand with his own.

“Gorgeous,” he says, laying a string of kisses down Jason’s sternum, the praise making Jason’s breath stutter. He removes Jason’s hand from his dick and pins it over his head so they can press their hips together, the two of them groaning at the contact.

Truthfully, it’s nothing like how Jason imagined it would be; it’s _better_. The two of them taking their time, running their hands over every inch of skin, tracing each other’s scars and mapping them with their hands and lips. Jason locks his ankles around Bruce’s hips and thrusts against him heedless of his injury, but it’s worth it to see Bruce’s eyes flutter shut at the renewed contact.

They go on like that for what feels like hours, their movements languid and unhurried, with Jason’s orgasm gradually building in his gut. As he gets closer, his movements become more desperate; he claws at Bruce’s shoulders and rakes his nails down his back, his hips stuttering arrhythmically.

“B—,” he pants into Bruce’s open mouth.

“It’s okay Jason, I’ve got you,” he says, snaking a hand down between their bodies. And maybe Jason’s just drunk on the sound of his name on Bruce’s lips, but Jason comes at the first touch of Bruce’s fingers to his dick, spilling messily between them. Bruce swallows down Jason’s moan, his own movements increasing in pace now that Jason’s boneless and sated beneath him.

“Jason,” he pants, and Jason grabs his ass, driving their hips together. “Jason,” he says again, tenderly stroking his thumb over Jason’s cheekbone just as he did in the Watchtower, “ _Jay_ —”

Bruce comes with a deep groan that he buries in Jason’s shoulder, his hips working desperately as he thrusts against him. He collapses on top of Jason with a sigh, careful of his injury, and Jason revels in feeling every inch of Bruce’s body pressed against his. After several moments he rolls off the bed to retrieve Jason’s discarded t-shirt and brusquely wipes over his own abs before passing it to Jason.

“Wow, such a gentleman,” he says, wiping the mess off his stomach before tossing the t-shirt back onto the floor.

“It was all those etiquette classes I had as a child,” he agrees, sliding back into bed next to Jason who rolls until he’s half on top if him. They’re quiet like that for the longest time, Jason’s head cradled on Bruce’s shoulder while he draws patterns on his chest, enjoying the luxury of having all of Bruce’s skin on display. Bruce is stroking his hair and Jason never wants this moment to end—but then again, he’s never been one to let well enough alone.

“What made you do it, that first time,” he murmurs into Bruce’s collarbone.

Bruce’s hand stills and he’s quiet for a long moment. Finally, he says, “I was scared I was losing you.”

Jason props himself up on his elbow so he can look Bruce in the eye, his heart thudding in his chest. “So you did use sex to manipulate me?”

“Yes,” says Bruce, steadily meeting Jason’s eyes. “It was wrong and I apologise.”

Jason pulls away and Bruce remains silent for the time it takes to fish out a cigarette and his lighter from the dresser drawer. He lights up and is halfway through the cigarette before he says, not looking at Bruce, “you realise that’s particularly unhinged, even by your standards?”

He chances a sidelong look at Bruce, sees his eyes are downcast. “I regret it immensely,” and Jason knows how much those words cost him.

“And the second time?”

Bruce shifts uneasily until his back’s against the headboard, the two of them seated side by side. “I had been notified that you were approaching the Iceberg Lounge. I knew you were behind Penguin’s arms heist, and I could see that your disguise was not particularly… convincing. I had no intention of propositioning you; if you’ll recall, it was you who made an advance on me. I was only ever concerned for your safety.”

“You know I can take care of myself, right?” He stubs out his cigarette with a bit more aggression than is probably necessary.

“A fact I am aware of, but am still getting accustomed to. It’s clear that I still feel a certain degree of responsibility for you.” Jason lights the second cigarette and, as if to illustrate his point, Bruce says, “you really shouldn’t smoke.”

“Fuck you,” is the automatic retort.

Silence falls once again until Jason asks, not without some trepidation, “and the third time?”

“The third time was different,” he says. “After you returned to Gotham after—after training with Talia, our relationship changed. And when we started to work together again, I found I was developing feelings for you.” Jason finds himself holding his breath, the cigarette forgotten. Bruce was never one to talk openly about his feelings, and Jason spent the better part of his teenage years working overtime to try and compensate.

“At first I did my best to deny those feelings.”

“Why?”

Bruce hesitates again, uncharacteristically uncertain. “We had a history that was—complicated, to say the least. Also you were a child when I took you in. It was unconscionable to think—”

“I’m not a kid anymore,” he says quietly.

“I know that,” he says, placing a hand on Jason’s knee, and Jason feels grounded by the simple contact. He continues unerringly, “after our third encounter, I found I couldn’t deny those feelings any longer.” Jason thinks of the reverence with which Bruce stroked his face, the awed gasp just before he came, and he thinks he understands. “I knew I couldn’t allow things to continue as they had been, that I needed apologise for how I’d acted and be honest with you, honest with myself.”

Jason stares at Bruce for several long moments, his eyes prickling and his heart beating rabbit-fast. Without comment, he moves to straddle Bruce’s thighs and kisses him deeply, hoping it conveys everything he wants to say. Bruce sighs into the kiss, melting under his hands until Jason eventually pulls away, satisfied.

Jason readjusts until he’s sitting between Bruce’s spread legs, his back pressed against the length of Bruce’s torso and his head resting comfortably on his shoulder.

“You know, we really should thank Alfred for this,” he says, reaching for the dresser and retrieving his abandoned cigarette.

“Oh?” asks Bruce mildly.

“Yeah,” he says, relighting it and taking a long drag. “If it hadn’t been for Alfred, you would have never come to give me the birthday invitation, and none of this would have ever happened.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, deftly plucking the cigarette from Jason’s fingers and taking a drag, “you should know Alfred’s birthday is not until August.”


End file.
